Monday, March 2, 2015

6971 Mary is a virgin so
she is pure and holy as God is pure and holy.
Actually purity and holiness are the same thing. They mean untouched by death. The mortal cannot approach and stand in the
presence of the immortal. And that has
become a meaningless concept today when mortality has been banished and
immortality is everywhere. Let me
explain. I live in Kathmandu, where real
nature, the squalor and the great disorder of real life, is impressively
evident. This place is not the pixilated
hyper-reality of High Definition cleanliness.
Back home in suburban, golf-course-trimmed, America everything is so
nice. Technology is protecting us from
the rest of the world and entangled nature. We instead celebrate Nature,
beautiful faces near beautiful landscapes out a clean window overlooking a
brook. In warm, sanitized energy
efficient cocoons called home. We never
think about mortality. We never see
death. Or birth for that matter, because
it too is rather disgusting. Indeed,
birth and death are now in high tech hospitals where everyone is so nice. Immortality reigns. But in Kathmandu hospitals seldom see
sanitation. And the toilets are … if you
like the smell of piss ammonia (not cleanser), you will love them. Hepatitus A flows like a river. Biology is on full display. Death is near. But the gods are displayed, just like the
ever-virgin, ever-youthful Mary, is such bright beautifully colored posters, so
useful for covering cracks in the wall.
Today in the developed world all the young women are virgin mary and
pure and they look so superb on big screen TVs.
Nature, real nature, is nowhere to be seen.

Saturday, February 28, 2015

6970 All philosophies,
when taken to their logical conclusion, find themselves in the brambles of
self-contradiction and parody. Even
today’s positivistic, materialistic scientism.
The question then becomes one of how to deal with that. The most common tactic is to not go to that
logical conclusion, but to remain in the penultimate anteroom. Some can do that, but it’s a little like not
going all the way to orgasm. There’s
something cravingly unsatisfying about it.
Another way is that of Nietzsche’s Zarathustra, namely, to become an
agile dancer and step joyfully into the Dionysian whirlwind. Whichever way you choose, you’re going to
have to give up ironing the sag out of your favorite conceptual jeans. (There’s
no way I can make all those mixed metaphors fit together smoothly. Sorry.)

Wednesday, February 25, 2015

6969 Someone on Quora asks,
“What is the use of asserting that things exist independent of human
observation?” and then proceeds to talk about axioms of independent
existence. What’s the use of such and question? That word “use” is strange to
begin with. Nonetheless, I will use it. I wrote this erudite smart alec answer.

The real is that
which exists independent of, or better yet, separate from thought. The truth is
that some of us crave such a real thing.
A lover longs for the real. That should
be axiomatic. What’s the use of dreams
if they never come true? If he will
never be standing there “in the flesh”, taunting you with reality? The problem
with today’s philosophy is that it is all head and no groin. Eros is our guide to the heights, not dry
academics trying to be relevant, but are of little or no use at all.

What's the use of
such an answer? I think it serves to
bring the philosopher back to the proper object of all philosophizing: the
beloved. There is where we encounter
Being and the Real. All else is
preparation for the event.

Tuesday, February 24, 2015

6968 God said he would
rather we be hot or cold; the lukewarm he would spit out of his mouth. And that of course is just how you want your eromenos to be. Passionate fury or frozen insolence. Such a come-on. Rapture him.

6967 Style. Can we say that God has style? Or is he all serious content and severe substance? It seems to me that Jesus was more of an
argumentative brat. One who ran away
when faced with a crowd he had made angry with his insolence. He was easily upset with his own who couldn’t
understand and who fell asleep. Is that
style? I imagine there was a certain
charisma about him, otherwise how could he hang on to his disciples and make
them love him for so long. But does that
one in heaven he prayed to have style?

Consider those
raving mad men, today euphemistically called prophets, who fell down slain in
the spirit on the high places. Surely
that one they were worshipping had a certain je-ne-sais-quoi. That
blowing phallus. That jealous
jammer. Jesus said, “… before Abraham
was I AM”. That guy is the burning bush
itself. He knows his own.

As for God in
Islam, Rumi said, Go forth, my comrades, draw along
our beloved, at last bring to me the fugitive idol; with sweet melodies and
golden pretexts draw to the house that moon sweet of presence. And if he
promises, "I will come in another moment," all his promises are but
cunning to beguile you. He possesses a flaming breath, by enchantment and
wizardry knotting the water and tying up the air.

And then there is
Krishna the bejeweled dark lover. Well,
of course he has style. And Buddha the
slim-waisted serene one, sitting there eyes half-closed in his dispassionate
come-on. Style.

Yes, God has
style. He is all style and seduction. I am very religious. I kiss the foot of Jesus. And swoon.

Monday, February 23, 2015

6966 There never was a
dark confused beginning. First there was
the light and fairness of the smooth face.
Order and division. The clean
cut. The untouched. That smooth face. And his rosy dawn cheeks as
he walks away. You delicately finger
your pan pipes in the infinity of fractal perfection. Honey, sit with me on the scales of scalar
self-similarity. The explosion. Come. You're so reptilian.
All down in the down of your smooth thigh. Mellifluous and cultured. Butchered.

The evolutionists
are wrong. The world has always been
created just twenty minutes ago. Or however
long it takes you to work it up and out.
A pouty sprout. A rout and root. And then the
eternal cleaning up. Preening up. Screening out. Screaming ice cream dream. A bit too easy. Frozen.

Cosmology is no
more than cosmetology with that euphonic t.
Sweet stuttering. Shuttering out
the murmurs. The intramural recluse is at it again, working the games of simulated life. The beginning of man. A mere appendage to the boy.

6965 Ever since Rousseau
and Wordsworth and Freud, thinkers have been trying to get back to the primal
things. Scary things of our original
nighttime. It’s such a civilized thing
to do. Boys of an advanced, very
advanced intellectual dreaminess, lying about in their white underwear while
the curtains gently breeze. I have been
thinking of Agni in the Rig Veda. One could
of course see those mantra as an early science of fire making. Far from the smooth skin of a high
priesthood. Pixilated digits groping in
the soft night. Fire in the groin and
the ethereal scythe.

Which came first:
speaking or writing? Which came first:
material inchoate stuff or the straight lines of high intellectual
civilization? Which came first: groans
and dirty beaten heads or smooth messengers out of heaven? The duende or the angel?

Today boys
languidly watch fantasy videos of the far future which is also the primal past
and listen to cybernetic loops of perfect sound. They masturbate themselves into
religion. Scary stuff in suburban
security. And then dinner is ready.

The primal and the
last things are inventions of our holy ennui.
Our divine self-hypnosis. It repeats and repeats and repeats. Every angel is the same as every other. Fiery jewels in the sky.

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About Me

4116 Writing is reading. The writer rewrites what he has
read. He rewrites the gods who now, still now, live in the
writings. Who have always lived in the Word. Who twist and twist
around in the writer's mind becoming again the Form of words. Words serve
their own being, their desire, the rhythm that is Life. The writer
repeats for us the readers, again the writers. The old writings, the old
writers come again. The ever old, the ever young. Eros the oldest and the
youngest of the gods. The Uncontrollable.

If you are going to write, if
you are going to read well, you must have read. You must have read deeply
and excessively. You must be obsessed, you must be possessed. You
will be repressed by the Force present and you must fight back. The words
and the gods in them will yield to your yielding. You are dealing with
the Real beyond the merely real.

For us, reading and writing
are the erotic Struggle in the spirit. Without the erotic, the madness,
there is only journalism.